


A Flame in the Night

by Piscaria



Category: Night Sun Tarot Deck
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, ToT: Monster Mash, ToT: Tricky Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: A page and a knight meet in a swamp.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



Far in the distance, a flame flickered to life, low enough to be a star rising over the horizon. Stars filled the sky, though darkness had gnawed the moon to a faint sliver. The page picked his way through that darkness, mindful of each swish of marsh grass against his bare skin, every squelch of mud between his toes. Somewhere in the darkness, _they_ watched and listened, picking clean the bones of his companions. 

Reflexively, he fingered the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword at his hip. It was a masterful sword, or so the other boys told him, honed to razor sharpness, with the guard wrought in the same elaborately-feathered wings that decorated the crest of the mountain kingdom. But the calluses on his fingers came from a quill, not a sword. He doubted even the keenest blade would save him if _they_ discovered him. Still, he owed it to the dead to fight, if it came down to it. His companions had, for all the good it did them. 

Only three days earlier, he’d hunched over his desk in the Scribal Guild’s shop, painstakingly copying the Path of Heaven’s Hook from a sacred geometry text. He’d had a name then. A trade as a scribe’s apprentice. A warm bed to sleep on, and plenty of food. When a commotion on the street carried through the thick, book-lined walls of the shop, he’d seen it only as an excuse to rest his aching hand. Carefully setting down his quill, he stood, rolling circles with his shoulders to ease the tightness in his upper back. His cramping fingers flexed and curled as he joined the crowd of onlookers gathering in the street. 

The monks heralded their own arrival as they marched up the hill. Bare arms raised above their cowled hoods as they struck triangles and jangled bells. Behind them, two enormous bulls walked with all the dignity of parade horses, pulling a carriage behind them. The monks quieted as they reached the village square, spiriting their instruments away into inner pockets of their robes. Two of them stepped forward to open the carriage doors. A robed and bearded man ducked out of the carriage, his elaborately-embroidered slippers incongruous against the dusty cobblestones. He wore a tall, crossed hat, and carried a staff like giant key. 

“The hierophant!” awed voices whispered around him. “The hierophant is here!”

The page, still then an apprentice, caught only a glimpse of the hierophant before the master scribe caught him by the ear, dragging him back into the shop.

“Stop gawking,” she’d said, though her own eyes were wide behind her half-moon spectacles. “Whatever is happening, it doesn’t concern you.”

But for once in her life, the old scribe had been wrong. 

Less than an hour later, the door to the workshop banged open, a gust of fresh air dispersing the dizzying fumes of leather, parchment and ink. Two monks entered. One lifted a hand to forestall the master scribe as she rose from her desk, hurrying towards them. The other trailed in more slowly, an enormous egg cupped incongruously in his hands. He scanned the shop until his eyes fell upon the row of apprentices’ desks. 

Each of them held the egg in turn, ink-stained fingers curling nervously over the alabaster shell. The page, still then an apprentice, had taken it last, while the master scribe huffed about all the daylight they were losing to this spectacle.

The egg weighed more than he expected. The delicate shell throbbed with warmth, as though a pulse beat deep inside it. Curious, he pressed an ear to it, half expecting to hear a muffled heartbeat. Instead, a crack sounded through the shop. 

Everybody stared at him.

“Now look what you’ve done!” the master scribe cried. 

In dismay, he stared down at the crack spreading over the egg’s fine surface. 

The two monks drew themselves up like vultures, peering at him from beneath their hoods. The one who’d carried the egg reached into the folds of his sleeveless robe, drawing forth a wicked knife. The apprentice felt his body tensing like a rabbit. Across the shop, the master scribe had risen in protest, but she was too far away to stop the knife from flashing through the air.

The blade made a hollow crunch as it lodged in the cracked eggshell. The apprentice stared down at it, too afraid to move. Ignoring him, the monk pried open the egg like a walnut shell, his movements steady, despite the wild shaking of the apprentice’s hands. Stepping back, the monk wiped the knife clean on his robe. With the blade, he gestured for the apprentice to look inside.

At first, he hought the golden gleam only an egg yolk. But when, at the monk’s impatient gesture, he dipped a finger into the jagged shell, he felt only the whisper softness of silk. In astonishment, he drew forth a long and narrow scarf, its golden luster brighter than any lamp in the workshop. Impossibly tiny stitches marked out a repeating motif of circles inscribed with six-petaled blossoms. The ink stains on his fingers showed clearly through the diaphanous silk, and he thrust it towards the monks, terrified that he’d already ruined it.

With a grim expression, the monk lifted the scarf, only to drape it around the apprentice’s neck with surprising gentleness.

Everything that came afterwards was a blur. 

The monks half-dragged, half-carried him out of the shop, to where the hierophant had commandeered the wooden platform in the village square that served for announcements and weddings. The hierophant pulled him, stumbling, onto the platform. 

Villagers who’d never spared a mere scribal apprentice a second glance stared at him now with complete attention. Some watched with pity. Some with envy. Some with pride. The more adventurous youth in the village were already arguing over who would get the honor of accompanying him to the capital. 

“Your old name is lost to you, as long as you carry this,” the hierophant said, lifting a sword that had to cost more than all the books in the shop put together. “You belong to no guilds. No households may claim you. Do you choose to carry out the task the gods have named for you?”

“I do,” he’d whispered, nearly staggering beneath the weight of the sword as the hierophant laid it in his waiting hands.

“Then I proclaim you Page of Swords!” 

Even through the coarse linen of his shirt, the page had shivered as the twin dragonette heads settled heavily onto his shoulders. Their slitted eyes were empty, but they watched him all the same.

Now, he shivered for an entirely different reason. The long, feather-shaped fringe of dragon hide fluttering against his bare chest and stomach did nothing to block the chill night air, nor did the sheer scarf fluttering against his back. His shirt had long-since been shredded into bandages that ultimately proved futile. The page forced his aching feet to move faster, hoping to warm his blood through movement, though he couldn’t shake the feeling he was walking straight into the jaws of the beasts who’d eaten his companions. He strained to make sense of the darkness before him, searching the shadows for the slightest hint of movement. That’s when he noticed the light in the distance had grown closer. 

Not a star after all, then. A torch.

The light moved steadily closer, fast enough that the distant torch bearer must be on horseback. The page’s pulse pounded in his throat, and his fingers gripped the sword hilt hard enough to hurt. He wanted to tear his gaze away. The thought of that torch extinguishing, of the darkness swallowing it like it had that first, foolish campfire, made him sick. But, like a nightmare, his body acted of its own accord, freezing in its path to watch the light grow closer. Even at a distance, the bright flame seared his night-accustomed eyes. He wondered if he’d hear the rider’s screams when _they_ caught him. 

Growing up in the village, he’d of course heard stories of the monsters lurking in the nearby swamps. He’d always dismissed them as caution-tales told by mothers to keep their babes from wandering into the swamp and drowning. Several of the older village boys foraged at the edge of the swamp for arrowhead, turtles, cattails, ducks, and their eggs. As far as he knew, nothing had ever happened to them, save for the one who cut his arm on a jagged branch and died of infection a week later. 

Bolstered by this knowledge and the buoyant bravery of the three young men who’d elected themselves to be his companions for the journey, the page hadn’t thought anything as they settled down to camp that first night, just as darkness unfolded into the horizon. They’d roasted sausages over the flames, cheerfully debating how long it would take to reach the capital. None of them had noticed the first shadow separate itself from the darkness and drift towards their campfire until it was too late. Born of darkness, the creatures swarmed to the light like moths to a flame. 

They’d killed two of his companions, would have killed the page, too, if the third hadn’t shoved him backward, screaming at him to run. Grabbing up his sword, he’d fled the massacre, his remaining companion fast at his heels. The wind carried the shrieks of the other boys after them.

They hadn’t dared to stop until daybreak, when they finally collapsed with exhaustion into the tall grass. Only then had the page seen the gray cast of his companion’s skin and the blood stains on his shirt. He’d washed and bandaged his companion’s wounds, fed him medicinal bark and raw duck eggs for strength. None of it had helped. By sunset, his companion was dead. Lacking tools to bury him, and fearing to linger in one place too long in the darkening shadows, the page had dragged the body to a swamp pool and piled rocks upon its chest until it sank.

He’d been walking ever since, hurrying through the darkness at night and sleeping fitfully during the day, living on raw eggs and whatever weeds he could find. The creatures hadn’t attacked again. Maybe they only flocked to light, or maybe a single page did not make a very appetizing meal. Maybe they only attacked prey when it stood still. Whatever the reason, the page hoped his luck would carry him to the edge of the swamp.

The journey had been easier yesterday, with the moon a bit larger. The page hadn’t realized how much he missed that light until the rider’s torch grew near enough to silhouette the swamp grass and spindly trees. He could make out the rider’s horse now, its fur as black as the night sky. Of the rider, he glimpsed only broad shoulders covered in spikes that must be armor. A dark cloth wound around the rider’s head, obscuring his face. 

Engrossed as he was in the distant rider, the page did not notice the air growing cooler around him until it was almost too late. The hair on the back of his neck lifted. His skin broke out in gooseflesh. He spun around in time to dodge the ebony claws striking towards him. 

With a cry of fear, the page stumbled backwards, reaching for his sword. Even this close, he could make out little of the creature. It was darkness itself, wrapped in shadows that faded into the night. From beneath its hooded, two eyes glowed scarlet with pure hatred.

Fumbling, he unsheathed his sword, holding it before him like he’d seen the village guardsmen do. The creature lunged forward, and the page hacked at it clumsily. The blade sliced through a wispy edge of shadowed cloak, but the creature itself easily avoided the swing. 

Again, dark claws lashed out at him. The page jerked backwards and overbalanced, toppling down into the marsh grass and losing hold of his sword in the process. In a flash, the creature was on top of him, stealing the warmth from his body. He groped in the grass for the sword, but stilled as an icy claw caught him under his lower lip.

It was so cold, the page didn’t even realize he’d been cut until the creature lifted its dripping claw to its face, slurping up blood with a terrible sound. The creature grinned down at him, and the page realized in dawning horror that this was going to be slow. Horribly, painfully slow.

He cringed away from the glowing eyes, screwing his eyes shut as the creature bent over him. The breath gusting over his face smelled like a graveyard.

And then the world exploded into flame behind his closed eyelids.

A high, inhuman scream had the page clutching his hands to his ears even before his eyes opened. A horse’s whinny followed it. The page opened his eyes, blinking to make sense of what he saw. The creature now circled the rider, who fended it off easily with his flaming rod. 

The silver gleam of his sword amidst the marsh grass caught his eye, and the page lifted it. He stood uncertainly in the hip-high grass. His mouth stung where the creature had cut him, and he lifted a hand to it. As he watched, the creature exploded into flames. 

Shrinking back into the marsh grass, the page re-sheathed his sword. The rider was slowly turning the horse around. Light fell upon the page and he flinched, hand still pressed to his mouth.

In a practiced moment, the rider dismounted, still holding the flaming torch. A dark cloth obscured his face, save for a sharp, hawk-like nose and deep-set eyes beneath heavy brows. He stared down at the page, who knew he should say something, should thank him, at the very least, for saving his life.

But all of the words had frozen in his throat.

He lowered his hand slowly, licking blood from his lips. The rider’s eyes followed the motion, then flicked lower, focusing suddenly on his neck. The page wondered if he’d received another wound when a strong hand reached forward, lifting the silk scarf by a finger.

“You’re a page,” the rider said. His voice was deep and soft as velvet.

It wasn’t really a question, but he nodded anyway. “Yes, sir. Page of Swords.”

Amusement glinted in the rider’s dark eyes. “You’ll need to learn to keep hold of your sword, then.” 

The page nodded, shamefaced, but the rider only laughed. 

“Don’t worry. I’d never held one of these before, either, before the old man wrapped a scarf around my neck.” He lifted his flaming rod to demonstrate. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“ _You’re_ a page?” He couldn’t help the note of disbelief in his voice.The rider had to be at least twenty. 

“I _was_ a page once,” the rider corrected. “Now, I’m a knight. The Knight of Rods.” 

Behind them, the horse made an impatient sound, glancing around nervously. The knight glanced back at it, then at the page.

“Well, come on, then.”

The page gaped up at him. “Really?”

“If you’re newly ascended, you’ll be heading to the capital,” the knight said. “My mission takes me there as well.”

He boosted the page up onto the horse, then easily swung himself into place behind him. The page blushed as strong arms reached around him to take the reigns. He stared down at the silver gauntlets that covered the backs of the knight’s hands, at the strong and calloused fingers looped in the reigns. He awkwardly hooked his own fingers in the horse’s mane, trying not to lean back against the strong wall of heat behind him. The rod blazed so brightly in front of him that he wondered how the knight could even stand to look at it.

The rhythm of the horse beneath him was unfamiliar, but soothing. Exhausted by three days of fitful sleep and non-stop walking, the page let himself relax into the movement, until the world shifted alarmingly around him, and a strong arm caught him around the middle just before he toppled off the horse. 

“Watch it!” the knight warned. “I can’t hold onto both you and the rod.”

“I’m sorry,” the page mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. The knight’s hand released him, taking up the reigns once more, but his arm remained solid around the page’s front. 

“Hold out just a little bit longer. We’re almost there.”

_Where?_ the page wanted to say, but he could only nod. Giving in, he leaned back into the solid warmth of the knight’s chest. He stared at the flame until his eyes burned, knowing better than to close his eyes, even for a second. He realized, in a rush of embarrassment, that his hand had migrated after the near fall. Now, it rested on the knight’s leather-wrapped forearm, absently squeezing the muscles beneath. Blushing, he released his grip, reaching once more for the horse’s mane. The knight’s gauntleted hand rested over the back of his for a second, as if to say it was all right.

The landscape shifted around them, trees growing taller and thicker. The swish of marsh grass around the horse’s legs disappeared, replaced by the muffled sound of hoof beats on fallen leaves. The page was just starting to nod off again when they pulled to a stop before a square platform raised a few feet off the ground. Walls lifted up at a sharp angle on either side, meeting in a triangular peek in the center of the platform. 

“This is a way station,” the knight explained. “It’s not much, but it’s better than sleeping on the ground.” He dismounted, offering a hand to help the page down as well. 

“Spread this out,” the knight said, producing a bedroll from one of the saddle bags. “I need to tend to my horse.”

The page did as he asked, spreading the bedroll out over the wooden platform. It took all of the willpower he had not to climb into it himself, but he wouldn’t impose on the knight anymore than he already had. Instead, he curled up on the wooden floor of the platform. It wasn’t much, but the sloped roof offered some protection from the elements and, as the knight had said, a raised platform was infinitely better than the ground. The page curled up under the dubious protection of the dragon cloak, stirring only when the knight gave his arm a little tug.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll both be warmer if we share body heat.”

That was all the invitation the page needed to roll over, fitting himself into the bedroll with the knight. It was a tight fit, but as his chilled flesh pressed against the knight’s body, he found he didn’t care in the slightest. The knight hissed a little as the page’s cold fingers crept into his shirt, seeking out further warmth, but he reacted in kind, fitting his own hands, minus the gauntlets, up beneath the leather fringe of the dragon cloak. His palms were large and surprisingly warm against the page’s back. A contented sigh escaped the page as he snuggled deeper into the warmth of the knight’s body. The hand on his back held him tighter. 

“Goodnight,” a voice whispered into the page’s hair.

He laughed, giddy with relief at still being alive and closer to warm than he’d been in days. “Good night,” he mumbled. “Good knight. Like you.”

The knight snorted. “Go to sleep.”

And the page did.


End file.
